And I said,
"...to what end do we speak,
communing as do the dead,
when all that will pass,
in light of what has existed,
is but mere seconds?"
A chime then gently whistled by:
a furtive, intuitive and unassuming butterfly,
simplicity stamped in a filigreed seal,
tintinnabulations dimly quiet; loud & surreal.
Amiable were the wings a'flutter,
soaring higher than most others,
yet peripheral views were none-too-modest for her.
As well as she knows herself,
my self-acquisitions amount to stutters.
'Twould be one of three instances
wherein an opportunity to give back,
pushed out a thought I was entrusted with,
by an intellect not attained from below,
rather endowed me from above,
like a gift:
"Lay hold on that which you stitch,
calibrate your pulse to the needle,
swear fealty to the tailored dreams you follow;
authentic to yourself, for yourself,
that every second may multiply potential,
for infinite tomorrows,
long after you've lain six-feet under gravel."
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